Plundering didn’t touch our made of sticks hut dark blue river that encircled us didn’t make a dent in the conflagration of the city we laid our limbs onto the covers of the sun cared by the sob of our hands born in idolatry and grace If we got whipped by the spring windstorm it was because the winters opened and shut around us like Symplegades our unspoken hour bloomed among the cypresses we gazed the trees that with no tie nor watch listened to the flow of their sap stretching their fingers with selfless supplication and when the gods arrived we welcomed them because we imagined people like them not being lucky to ponder on the uncounted discretion we didn’t think of death as our Fate we who have known our forgetfulness Now our silence a roof over the nakedness of time.
Twenty-first century last century of real-life twenty years with the internet the digital era reality is crashed the number 2 digital Earth is created with 5G technology we buy a lot using logarithms we buy our house for the second time (to be sure) as the mirrored existence is bargained and the human DNA is slowly transformed. The rubber band of the border stretches over the cosmos it turns into a cable of Hertzian wavelengths it becomes Bluetooth infinite signal among the innumerable cohabitants of the Universe who we shall meet perhaps their satellites speak among them and talk about us perhaps the advanced radars speak and search for the true second Earth. Perhaps perhaps perhaps it flows it flows nothing, but nothing flows. we hide in social media we hide in the QR code we become digital supermen we fall in love and talk to millions of friends with closed mouth one hand holds the spoon and stirs the earthly soup nothing, but nothing flows.
His voice was clear and stern. She knew that his argument was probably right, but the convenience of the ready-made food was hard to replace. They decided to follow the first vet’s advice: put their pet on a daily medication and pray for the best. They started Elvis on his daily regimen, just like himself being on a daily dose of pills since his heart attack almost twenty years earlier, when one of his coronaries was occluded. However, he was lucky it was only one coronary, and he’s still around to tell the story. The beautiful animal got used to his medication to the point that every time after lunch he would say “Elvis, time for your medication” The little dog stood ready to be picked up by mom, to be taken close to the kitchen counter close to dad who was holding the tube with the daily dose of medication in his fingers and when he touched the side of his pet’s mouth and said, “your mouth” Elvis half opened his mouth to take the little squirt of medication which was followed by his treat. Days went by, months, a year, and almost a second year. They realized that their decision not to put their pet on chemo was the best one. And their Elvis gave them many days of laughter, against all odds and the doctors’ prognostications. Until two weeks before the second anniversary of the prognosis, while petting him, he noticed the dog was tender on his right hind leg over the area of his surgery years ago. He mentioned it to his wife. Concern spread in her eyes. They promised to keep an eye on him. Two days went by. The situation worsened. They called the vet, who suggested that perhaps the cancer metastasized from his bladder to his bones, as it was statistically the case in most of these dogs. They searched online, and they froze when they realized cancer metastasizes to the animal’s pelvis 90 % of the time. His pelvis was his weak point. True enough, as the days passed, Elvis worsened. He couldn’t go up and down the stairs anymore. She carried him up and down and outside to pee, and to his plate to eat, until the last day when he didn’t touch his food and stayed on his blanket all day. They exchanged glances numerous times. It was time.
Brother Keallach was a good listener when Rordan needed to vent his frustration and Rordan definitely needed to talk now. “I just cannot understand why Father Finten has such a distrust of my interest in medicine. Well, perhaps I do know why. Father Gofraidh was the same. “I travelled for two years with a physician before coming to the monastery. In my travels, I met many good doctors who had studied with the Moors. But because those healers were not Christian, their works were forbidden. ‘What is not of God is of the devil,’ Father Gofraidh preached to his novices.” Rordan whipped at branches as the Brothers walked. “The Moors have a wonderful knowledge of medicine and mathematics and astronomy. But do not tell this to the Church Fathers. Only by chance was I able to learn the little I know about herbal medicines from an ancient Italian monk who had learned his craft from a healing woman in Italy. The healing woman was later condemned as a witch and put to death. Can you believe that? Put to death for helping people. Corn Mother knows more about herbs and medicines than anyone I have ever met in all my travels. And Finten does not want me to associate with her.” Rordan grew more agitated as he walked faster until Brother Keallach had to stop to catch his breath. Rordan stopped and turned to face his companion but continued speaking even as Keallach held his chest and breathed like a bellows. “Because of this mistrust, the knowledge we have is hidden away and forbidden. Did you know, Brother, the Church in Éirinn has more learning locked up in monasteries than anywhere else in Christendom yet illness is still regarded as being caused by sin? Even babies are only allowed healing by prayer. I believe in prayer, but this is cruelty. It’s ridiculous; bloody ridiculous.” Rordan picked up a small rock and threw it forcefully into a high arc. Then he continued striding. “An infected throat or a bad cough has to be treated with blessed candles and prayers to Saint Blaise. Saint Roch is invoked to cure the plague. Saint Nicaise does a poor job of protecting against smallpox, and kings are called upon to cure skin diseases with the Royal Touch, so commoners are seldom healed of shingles or leprosy.” Rordan stopped and sat on an ancient tree limb. His companion, thankful for the pause, plopped down beside him. “Despite all the knowledge available in our monasteries, monks are still forbidden to perform any kind of surgery. Cutting into the ‘temple of the Holy Spirit’ is a sin of murder. In the words of the late Father Gofraidh, ‘Surgery of any kind imperils the souls of both surgeon and patient.’ So barbers and charlatans cut people open for profit because real physicians are forbidden by Church hierarchy.” Rordan put his hands on his head, exhausted from his outburst.
Manolis Aligizakis 